by Patience Worth
Tenderly, lute of mine, sing.
Make thy throat as a horn of plenty,
Through which the songs of ages shall flow;
For music is the tongue of man's spirit-
And I would let it sing!
There is no discord, but that has
Its mate to make it music.
There is no singing save that it purifies.
The knocking of tabors 'gainst the tinkling harp,
Marks the measure!
Oh, song is emotion, fleshed,
Chords are the flesh of the spirit of beauty!
Last updated January 14, 2019